


Oh Night Divine

by SugarFey



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 00:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13112451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/pseuds/SugarFey
Summary: Brunnhilde opens the door to find Thor filling the doorway; snowflakes caught on his jacket and a lumpy red package under one arm. “Uh, hello.”A few months after the Asgardians are given refuge on Earth, Thor is intrigued by preparations for the festival of Christmas. Brunnhilde still feels like an outsider.





	Oh Night Divine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Warp and Weft](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12852708) by [SugarFey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/pseuds/SugarFey). 



> So I may have committed holiday themed fluff fic? 
> 
> This can be read as a companion to 'Warp and Weft,' as this is where I developed the headcanon that Thor enjoys knitting, but it can also be read as a standalone.
> 
> Many thanks to SneakyHufflepuff for the beta.
> 
> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and very happy holidays to all!

She still isn’t used to the endless Midgardian winter and its strange traditions.

Thor has thrown himself into the local customs whole heartedly, researching festivals and religions and encouraging all around him to do the same. The relationship between the Asgardian refugees and the Norwegian locals is gradually becoming less cautious, and groups of locals come to distribute supplies and socialise in the hastily built meeting hall in the centre of the makeshift dwellings granted by the Norwegian government. Yesterday a dozen men and women came to sing something called carols. 

But it’s been months and Brunnhilde is still becoming accustomed to life as a civilian, something made doubly difficult when the rules have been ripped out from underneath them. As an officer of the Valkyrior she was taught some court manners, but without a court these are functionally useless even if her centuries on Sakaar hadn’t coarsened her. She does her duties around the camp and then returns to her assigned hut in the evenings, where any Midgardian alcohol she can find is piss weak for an Asgardian constitution.

Even so, it’s better than nothing. She raises the bottle of whiskey to her lips and sighs as it warms her throat. The new paper star lantern hanging in her window gives off a warm glow that makes her Spartan room seem almost cosy. The Midgardians are preparing for a festival called Christmas, and while she doesn’t understand the point just yet, a woman at the meeting hall told her this was a common decoration. It is quite pretty.

She sits down at the small table at the window, has one sip and then another, watching the soft play of lights on the wall. Her eyes grow heavier in the warm air. The narrow bed in the corner has never looked more tempting, and she’s about to cross the room to it when a loud knock on the door cuts through the calm.

Brunnhilde opens the door to find Thor filling the doorway; snowflakes caught on his jacket and a lumpy red package under one arm. “Uh, hello.” 

She stares. “What in the realms is that thing on your head?” 

“Oh, this?” Thor reaches up and pulls what looks like a Hulk-size red and white sock from his head. “A traditional Midgardian headdress worn in celebration of the Christmas festival. I think it’s quite distinguished.” 

He smiles proudly. Brunnhilde remains unimpressed.

Undeterred, Thor reaches under the package and reveals a dark bottle. “It’s also customary to drink mulled wine.”

Now there’s a much more appealing thought. “Right.” Brunnhilde steps aside to let him through. “Guess you’d better come in then.” 

The doorframe is low enough that Thor has to duck to enter the room, and his shoulders alone seem to stretch from wall to wall. Midgardian huts weren’t designed with Asgardian brawn in mind. Still, he lowers himself gingerly onto the small chair, his ear brushing the star lantern in the window. 

“This is nice,” he says, examining one of the points. “I’m glad you’re embracing the local spirit.”

Brunnhilde shrugs. “A pretty girl was handing them out in the meeting hall. Who am I to pass up a flirting opportunity?” 

If Thor is annoyed by this, it does not show on his face. He uncorks the wine bottle and mimes a pouring motion, prompting Brunnhilde to search for glasses in her tiny cupboard. Normally she would just go straight for the bottle, but something about Thor’s presence makes her oddly self-conscious. 

The light frames his face as she moves towards the table. He looks much more at home in Midgardian clothes than anyone else does, probably from his previous trips to the realm. The navy high-necked sweater fits snugly across his chest, emphasising his bulging muscles without obviously intending to show off. She must admit, it looks good. Her own jeans and cream coloured sweater (called a ‘hoodie’ according to the blonde Midgardian teenager who sold it to her) still feel mismatched. 

She sits down opposite him at the table and passes him the glasses to fill. The wine is hot and steam rises in deliciously spiced curls above them. Brunnhilde holds her glass between her hands, enjoying the warmth and breathing in the aroma. She could get used to this.

Thor clinks his glass against hers. “I hope you’ve been settling in well.”

Brunnhilde hears the unspoken question in his voice. In the few months since they negotiated the settlement on Midgard, she and Thor have only really spoken a handful of times. “There’s a lot to do,” she says carefully.

She feels his gaze on her and she looks down to study the tendrils of steam.

“I notice you haven’t taken part in the social activities,” he remarks. 

It’s a fair observation. Truth is, she’s never connected to Asgardian civilians much. The Valkyrior were a separate elite warrior class and since she had no real family outside the ranks, most of her relationships were with other Valkyries. There have been a couple of outings once the Asgardians were granted limited permission to leave the camp; a trip to a swimming pool for the children, guided museum tours, a picnic. Always carefully monitored and escorted. Brunnhilde has refused any invitation to join, because the trips always involve being transported on vehicles called ‘buses’ and in any case, she’s wary of whatever official, sanitised version of history the Midgardian guides would peddle.

She shrugs, sipping her wine. “Been keeping an eye on me, have you?”

Thor sets his glass down on the table and leans forward to rest his chin on his hand, his lips turning in an exaggerated grin. “My eye is always drawn to you.”

Brunnhilde rolls her eyes, laughing, but her cheeks feel uncomfortably warm. Hopefully he won’t notice in the dim light.

“Why the sudden interest in my social life?” she asks, her embarrassment making her voice a shade harsher than she intended.

Thor sighs. “Because it isn’t just about doing your share of the work. You could build a home here. If you wanted.”

He sits up straighter, the patch over his eye casting shadows on his face. “I know it’s been some time since we…”

Brunnhilde gulps down her mulled wine so fast she coughs. This was exactly the turn she did not want this conversation to take.

They used to fuck regularly during the journey to Midgard. One encounter led to another, then another, then it almost approached routine, approached intimacy, approached… she didn’t know what. Everything shifted when the Asgardians were given safe harbour. In the cramped cabins of the Statesman it was easy to dismiss their couplings as desperation and loneliness and mutual slaking of lust. Settling down to build a life comes with expectations and assumptions and hopes for a future, so Brunnhilde hasn’t been avoiding him, not really, but she has found convenient excuses to not be alone with him. If the hurt confusion on his face eventually shifts to resignation, well, better for him.

“I care for you, Brunn,” Thor rumbles, in a voice she feels as much as hears. “Regardless. And I’ve been told it’s a Midgardian tradition to give Christmas gifts to those you care about. So, I came to give you this.”

He reaches under the table and produces the lumpy package he was carrying earlier, pushing it towards her. The red paper is patterned with crudely drawn fir trees wearing hats identical to the ridiculous stocking thing Thor was wearing at the door. 

“Open it,” he prompts eagerly. 

She throws him a sceptical look and tears the red paper. The pieces fall away to reveal a folded pile of soft, knitted wool.

“I heard red and green are the traditional Christmas colours,” Thor comments as she runs her hands over the folds. “But I felt this was more fitting.”

Brunnhilde cannot think of a single intelligent thing to say. “So you do knit.”

Thor nods, clearly enjoying her confusion. “The local craftspeople are very skilled. I’ve tried to incorporate their designs into the pattern.” 

Still incredulous with shock, Brunnhilde lifts the wool and unfolds it over her knees. It’s a long shawl in deep blue; bordered with a complex design in grey that she recognises from the sweaters and hats the locals wear. She lifts the shawl to examine it more closely, and spots that at each point is a familiar set of angles. The insignia of the Valkyrior, integrated into the design.

“It’s…” She falters, clutching the fabric in her fingers. “It’s...”

Beautiful. Extraordinary. Undeserved. The words stick to the roof of her mouth like glue.

Thor stands, walking around the table to stop in front of her. He leans down to take the shawl from her hands. “May I?”

She nods mutely, a riot of feelings under her skin.

Slowly, as though he is afraid of her reaction, Thor drapes the shawl around her shoulders, tucking it at one side until it sits like a tribute to the cape she no longer wears.

She pushes herself to standing, straight in his space. Close enough to touch.

The air between them begins to tingle with an old, familiar heat, yet Thor only reaches forward to adjust the shawl at her shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Brunn.”

He’s waiting for her, she realises, waiting for her to decide to take this further, to finally declare her intentions. She swallows, considering.

“Merry Christmas?” she asks with an eyebrow raised, playing for time.

“It’s the Midgardian phrase. ‘Seasons greetings’ is another, and ‘compliments of the season—“

He’s cut off when Brunnhilde presses her lips to his.

At first the moment is frozen, suspended, then his arms slide around her as she reaches up to cup the back of his neck, deepening the kiss as the want between them flares. She’s missed this, missed _him,_ and the thought is heart stopping.

Perhaps, this is something worth keeping.


End file.
